


Quiet Whispers (Through the Night)

by nobarre



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: An unacceptable amount of commas, M/M, Smut, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobarre/pseuds/nobarre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam wants to say something, is <i>bursting</i> with it, but he's always left disarmed inside these very walls he's learned to call <i>home</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Whispers (Through the Night)

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is particularly experimental, almost pretentious. A practice in writing smut, if you will. Expect almost 100% porn. Let that be your warning, yeah?
> 
> Inspired by Liam's comment after Zayn's lovely last note in [_Last First Kiss_ , 14 April, Sheffield](http://liamnpayne.tumblr.com/post/48042105199/biliki-that-moment-when-liam-called-zayn).
> 
> Disclaimer necessary; I do not believe the truth of this in any way, and just because the girlfriends are not mentioned here does not mean I believe it right to harass them so. 
> 
> Vaguest mentions of racism.

He always comes home to the smell of mentholated _something_ (he thinks it’s probably the shampoo) and distinctly bright walls.

One wall, in particular, houses different shades and hues he’s never thought possible, all sorts of reds and golden yellows, and muted blues. Liam sees mostly brown when he steps in, brown radiating all sorts of color, without regard for anything else in their path. The same paint (it’s _enamel_ and _acrylic_ and things Liam vaguely understands, really) mars the black of the Batman statuette that they’ve gotten, and the paint cakes nicely atop the glass of the aquarium where Tony the Goldfish lived. The color runs, reaching down until it stops against the hardwood floors, on the junction between cement and wood like it was the finish line, and the colors bleed together, forming this chaos of brownish-purplish _thing_ (but not black, Liam remembers. Black isn’t the mixture; it’s a distinct thing altogether).

Liam smiles. He never _was_ good at art, and while he appreciated comic-book vividness and crisp line-art, he never knows how to describe how to feel when he's in front of this wall.

The only thing he manages to articulate—the only thing he _remotely_ understands—is _small_.

And it’s not something he finds particularly disarming; rather, Liam finds that there is a certain sense of security he can associate with this feeling _small_. It’s like—for most of Liam’s life, he’s felt the need to be constantly on check, to always clench his fists because he _fears_ weakness, always has since he was told that _boys don’t cry_ and all that bullshit, advised (instructed, even) that the only way he’ll live is if he’s strong.

Liam exhales in awe and in wonder, like he always seems to when he’s here. He feels a certain warmth and turns to the clock—eight o’clock, right on time, as usual—and he feels water droplets from steam because Zayn always _did_ love his baths scalding hot.

Liam hears the door creak open, and Zayn’s standing in nothing but a towel wrapped tightly around his hips. He has another towel on his hand, rubbing his hair, and Liam can start to feel his trousers tightening because if _that_ wasn’t the hottest picture—

He doesn’t even completely understand it, but something about seeing Zayn with his hair down, all messed up, sans product, makes Liam want to ravish him. It always consumes him like wildfire, how Zayn is so unguarded like this, how no one else gets to see him with his hair down, dripping with water. One droplet manages to escape Zayn’s notice and Liam follows it, from his temples, to his jaw, falling to his chest—making a path downwards, through ink-stained skin, marks of meaning and spontaneity intertwined because that’s what Zayn _is_ : history, and now, and the future. The towel around Zayn’s waist absorbs the droplet Liam’s been following, and Liam’s eyes travel back upwards, slowly, until his eyes catch the corner of Zayn’s lips, quirked up, then he sees mischievous eyes.

Liam snaps out of his reverie ( _all slick skin and rushed movements and finished breaths, **that** kind of reverie_ ) when he hears a comforting drawl. _Leee-yum,_ Zayn says, and he’s _always_ said Liam’s name in the most comforting way. There’s something about the way Zayn’s voice crawls under his skin, but Liam’s unsurprised by this: everything about Zayn crawls deeper down, still; it tingles his veins and it’s marked in his bones, for sure. Zayn triggers lightning, sets his nerves alight.

Liam smiles, aiming for some sort of reassurance because Liam’s been admiring in silence for a moment too long that Zayn’s scheming eyes become doubtful.

“Hi,” Liam says, still out of breath while doing so. He clears his throat, again, because he’s got jitters down his spine, still, even after having done this for days—weeks—months? He seems to lose track of time with Zayn.

Zayn smiles back at him, brilliant as ever. “Hey,” he says, tone only equaling Liam’s own and Liam almost does a double-take at how Zayn sounded just then. And, because Liam feels daring tonight, he takes a step forward and steals the breath from Zayn’s lips, needing to inhale his exhales, and Zayn wraps his lithe arms around Liam’s torso, gripping tight, skin separated by the thin fabric of Liam’s tee. And—yes, this is probably _possibly_ why Liam _loves_ being small in this house, near him. Zayn—shorter than him, certainly less built—was always the bigger one out of the two of them: he’s got the bigger dreams, the bigger problems (Liam always wishes he can hush those away, silence the world for a moment to let Zayn _breathe_ ), and Zayn’s stronger than Liam ever will be. The press of Zayn’s arms around him makes him feel impossibly small and Zayn—holds fast, grips tight—his security.

They break apart and Liam stares a bit too long at Zayn’s eyes, framed by thick eyelashes, the golden of his skin almost dazzling ( _never less for it, Zayn,_ he’d whisper onto the night and early in the morning). Liam licks his lips, taking in Zayn, _what a **brilliant** work of art you are_, and surges in for another, then another, the taste of the nicotine and cherries and something else underneath—something so goddamn _addictive_ —until Zayn moans and he’s got a hand under Liam’s shirt, pulling on the offending material, but that’s not what Liam’s here for.

There is always this silence between two moments when Liam wants to _burst_ with it (it’s eight letters and three words and just _say_ it because you can’t cheapen— _this_ , Liam Payne). Liam’s got the pads of his thumbs on the veins in Zayn’s wrist, holding firm while caressing still, and Liam times his breaths with Zayn’s pulse: _one-two, one-two, one-two_. Zayn’s eyes search Liam’s, then, and Liam almost wants to _cry_ , because don’t you _see_ , Zayn, how much I’m so _broken_ for you?

Then, finding no answer, perhaps, Zayn fastens his lips against Liam’s jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck, bites at the sensitive skin there, makes Liam _groan_. Zayn’s hands are too quick for Liam, wriggling out of his grip—Liam, whose jeans have already been unbuttoned and lowered and Zayn’s fingers are already stroking a rhythm and Liam’s body, the traitor, bucks against the touch. Zayn moans, then, towel already on the floor, bare cock rubbing against Liam’s jeans and Liam lets him. Zayn’s eyes flutter closed, and he’s desperately rutting his dick against Liam’s leg, all while stroking Liam’s, precum gathering already lubrication enough, because Liam’s so turned _on_ by this and he _meant_ it when he said that Zayn was—is—a _beautiful, beautiful man_.

Liam almost doesn’t notice it, but when he feels a certain wetness then a suction against him, he exhales harshly, and it takes the self-control for him to stop Zayn’s ministrations, especially when Zayn’s got his tongue flat against the underside of Liam’s cock and his right hand stroking the base of it, where he can’t take it in, all the while his left hand plays with Liam’s balls in tender caress.

“Stop—Zayn, _fuck, don’t stop,_ ” Liam says, and he chokes on his own breath as he _almost_ tips over the edge, _almost,_ until Zayn’s only got the tip of Liam’s cock on his lips and  hand on the base. Liam almost pleads, and his knees feel _weak_ , and he braces himself on that goddamn wall, all the while telling himself _don’t—don’t come, Payne, not now—_

“What’s it gonna be,” Zayn inquires, eyebrow up and eyes still with that scheming-mischievous-sexy glint to it.

“No, no, _Zayn_ ,” Liam says, and there’s a tiny part of himself saying _this is your chance to let him know, this is it, it’s not just_ this _, it’s—_

Zayn sucks and sucks _hard,_ and Liam’s abandoned his previous state of mind because —“I—fuck, _please,_ ” Liam begs, and they both fumble to Zayn’s room, right behind that great wall, and Liam’s lying down on the bed with his shirt on but his trousers and his pants off, tossed long ago, and Zayn’s on top of him, peppering him with kisses every which way and whispers of something Liam doesn’t understand completely, no, but he’s beginning to, absorbs the _śhukriyā_ (1) pressed against his skin reverently, quiet pants of _maihairbani_ (2), words in a tongue Liam doesn’t know but wants to, wants to be a part of Zayn when no one else has, realizes how far _gone_ he is and when Liam chokes once more, says _please_ , Zayn leans down against Liam’s ear and whispers, _let me take care of you, babe_.

Liam groans (he’s been doing that a lot now), and his throat rebels against him but he says _no_ , says “ _want it hard, please,_ ”

Zayn reaches for the lube that’s taken a permanent residence in that same spot in his nightstand, and Liam feels empty for one seconds, two, three, then he feels the cold-then-hot slick on him, Zayn coating Liam’s cock liberally (almost lovingly), before he rips the condom pack with his teeth and rolls one on Liam’s cock and Liam’s almost confused, he wanted—

Zayn slicks himself up, buries his fingers deep inside himself, one then two and he’s not on Liam for these moments. Liam still looks, stares admiringly, licks his lips, still, and Liam watches as Zayn’s breath hitches on the third finger and Liam reaches for the abandoned bottle, too, wants to take Zayn’s breath away, slicks his fingers up. Zayn draws his fingers out slowly, one by one, gasping in the process, while Liam kisses him. Liam presses a finger against, _inside_ Zayn and Zayn—he’s so _hot_ around him, can only imagine how this would feel around his cock and Zayn’s own gives a spurt or two, makes Liam notice how abandoned it’s been the whole time. He closes his fingers around Zayn’s cock, jerks it off in time with his thrusts on the other end, until Zayn pants, _no, no,_

“Liam,” he says, teeth biting his lower lip. His eyes are so blown and Liam swears he’s never seen a better picture. “I said I’d take care of you, yeah?” he whispers.

Liam kisses the inside of Zayn’s thigh, then nips at a spot at Zayn’s hips. Zayn takes this opportunity to flip them around ( _he’s strong_ , Liam reminds himself, _still beat you in that one boxing match…_ ) and Liam, back on the bed, sees Zayn’s face stare at his for one moment, then Zayn holds Liam’s cock and sinks—

It starts with a slick, the slide, and Zayn’s eyes are shut tight, allowing himself to stretch with the intrusion, and Liam lets Zayn take control, completely, irrevocably, never saying a word when it’s _too slow_ , the only indication that he wants _more_ is a press of his thumb against Zayn’s hips and it spurs Zayn on, the slap of skin against skin, closer and closer until his thighs quiver, and that knot in his stomach unravels and he spills inside the condom, inside Zayn, shouts _something_ he can’t be bothered to think about, mind too muddled with sensations, in a place where words don’t matter. He’s spent, but Liam—he still thrusts upwards, using his remaining energy because he _lives_ for this, wants to see Zayn come apart on top of him, and whatever Liam’s said earlier spurs him on because he tightens against Liam’s already-softening cock, and spills unto his belly.

Liam laps at it eagerly (earning a _fuck, babe_ from Zayn), and they exchange breaths yet again, and when they settle in and the electricity crackles and their breaths return, Zayn has his ear pressed against Liam’s chest and whispers, “me too, Li.”

Before Liam can even process—before he even opens his mouth to ask what Zayn meant—Zayn shuts his eyes in exhaustion, sleep already claiming him, as he says, _welcome home._

Liam looks to the wall just outside the room, and thinks, _yeah._

**Author's Note:**

> (1) śhukriyā - _thank you_ , and  
> (2) maihairbani - _please_
> 
> are both transliterations of Urdu words from [Wikibooks](http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Urdu/Vocabulary/Basic_Phrases) (which I don't claim to be accurate at all, so if it's any trouble, please do feel free to correct me :) )


End file.
